Chores
by Chemical-Rayne
Summary: Artemis's deterioration in the wake of Wally's death, and the legacy she tries to leave behind for him. Oneshot. Minor language. Warning: contains mentions of suicide/self-harm.


CHORES

The place was a mess, as per usual.

All of my clothes were scattered across the floor while I continued to wear the same T-shirt and shorts from three days ago, the dishes were piled high in the sink and overflowing onto the counter-tops, old take out containers covered the tables while the leftovers inside rotted and curdled, and my untouched green uniform lay in a rumpled heap somewhere among the rest of the filth.

The house was quiet; even the flies that had been circling the decomposing food and unwashed dishes seemed to have gone to bed for the night. No coyotes howled in the distance, no crickets chirped by the windows, and the hum of the air conditioner had faded into the background, unnoticeable now as the static from the television drowned out everything else.

Including the sound of my crying.

Movies were no longer acceptable due to their high probability of containing some type of romance. This was the also the reason the radio was never used: love songs were out of the question, too. So as I sat on the couch, pillow clutched to my chest, the television only blared the white, fuzzy screen of static, the volume turned up ridiculously loudly so that I didn't feel as alone.

How stupid of me. Who was I trying to kid?

The house was mostly empty, save for the mess of my own clothing and the lack of motivation I had for picking up my messes. Almost everything of his was gone, either given to his parents, his friends, or thrown away in an attempt to appease my father six months ago, though it had been mostly out of spite. Still, I had secretly hoped that getting rid of everything might ease the pain, but almost half a year later, I still felt regret over what I'd done. Because now he felt truly gone, his presence removed with his belongings, and I only had a few things left that still retained a part of him.

The idea of his absolute removal from my life brought fresh tears to my eyes, and I put my mouth against the pillow to try and muffle the hysteric sobs. I didn't want to interrupt the sound of the static, needing the noise to slowly dissolve my mind. Or at least what was left of it.

As the house festered around me, in a state of ruin almost identical to that of my heart, I understood that this was all I had left. To just sit in my decaying home, the physical embodiment of my decaying body. For the signs of neglect were already marking me, as well. I could remember every single day that had passed, each leaving its own battle scar behind.

Day two was when the dark circles under my eyes had started appearing because I hadn't slept at all since he died. They'd only gotten darker since.

Day ten was when the malnourishment became apparent in my protruding ribs and collarbone, my cheek bones stark against the hollows beneath, eyes sunken further into purple sockets. His parents came by every few days now to feed me and make sure I wasn't completely starved.

Day twenty-three was when I finally looked into a mirror for the first time in three weeks and noticed that my skin was a sickly gray.

Day twenty-seven was when I went into the hospital for an overdose. Mom had come over to check on me and found me lying on the floor of the bathroom, medicine cabinet wide open and pills scattered around me. Needless to say, there were no pills or medicines of any kind in the house anymore.

Day forty-five was when I went back to the hospital for malnourishment. That's when his parents and my mom found out I was purging the meals they fed me from my body and that my stomach was now too weak for anything solid. I'd been in the hospital for a while after that, hooked up to a feeding tube as I learned how to eat again.

Day sixty-two was my fifth trip to the hospital, another case of starvation. The doctors were all very familiar with me and my habits by that point.

Day one-hundred fifteen was when I noticed the white strands interrupting the sequence of blonde in my hair.

Day one-hundred thirty-one was my third and final attempt to kill myself. It was a very poor attempt, to be fair. The bullet had missed my head by a fair amount because of the nutrient deficiency-induced shaking in my hands. They had increased my therapy sessions to three times a week after that, and anything in my home that was thought to be capable of being used as a weapon was removed, though I guess they didn't realize I had no strength left to try again.

Each day I had progressively worsened, and nobody knew how to help me. Because I didn't even want to be helped. I didn't want to get better. There wasn't a reason to get better anymore. And so I corroded like the house I lived in, doing nothing but sit and mourn while the world outside moved forward, somehow able to sustain an existence without the sun, a feat that left me feeling angry and betrayed. How could everyone continue living their lives like nothing was wrong? He wasn't here anymore. The sun was gone, and the world was suddenly bleak and torturous under the shadow if this eclipse, the pain more unbearable each passing day.

I knew I would be dead, too, if it wasn't for the others who were all so desperate to make sure I was still breathing. I didn't understand their need to keep something alive that was already dead inside. And they tried so hard, too.

One of the worst attempts to recover me was when my mother suggested keeping myself busy. I completed a lot of jigsaw puzzles in that phase. Now the pieces were scattered around the house, thrown out windows, flushed down toilets, caught in the drain of the sink. Mom had quickly learned from that mistake.

But the thing that had definitely caused the most damage was when my dad had told me within the first twenty-four hours to act like an adult, suck it up, and take care of _things_. I'd wanted to hurt him, to wound him physically so he would always regret those stupid words. But I'd decided to spite him instead. I would do what he said, and maybe it would even make me feel better, but if it didn't, he would watch me suffer. That would be his punishment, to watch his youngest slowly waste away before his eyes. The idea had been cold and heartless, but I had lost my sense of reason the day _he_ lost his life. At that moment, I could no longer be responsible for my actions.

The following week, I had seen to everything necessary. What had come first was the funeral.

His parents were taking control of most of the arrangements, but I helped contribute. What, with the flowers, the funeral home, and even picking out the plot, I had plenty to do in the way of planning. The service came and went. I would've said it was beautiful, if anything could contain beauty anymore. Everyone paid their respects to the empty grave accordingly as I stood there empty and expressionless, my under eye circles already making an appearance. The melancholy music played as a priest who never knew him talked about how wonderful he was. I had to cover my ears as he spoke to keep myself from strangling the man. His parents were very respectful. They patted me on the shoulder, gave me hugs, and even kept silent, though nobody else seemed to understand I preferred no sound at all compared to the annoying words of sympathy.

Next, someone had to call the school and tell them he wouldn't be a student anymore, and I figured that his parents already had a handful of priorities to take care of without me piling on more. I had to call the office and tell them to give his scholarship to someone else. Then I had to find all of his stupid books he'd just left lying all over the house and try to figure out where to return them. I mean, why couldn't he have just checked them all out at the school bookstore, like a normal person? There were several he'd rented online and a few he'd borrowed from local libraries. Had he even been taking that many classes? Not to mention the fact that they'd been trying to make me pay for the graduation supplies he'd already ordered. Hell, no, I was not going to pay for a damn dress he would never wear, anyway. They'd quickly seen matters my way.

After that ordeal was taken care of, I made sure to call all of his credit card companies and let them know. Luckily, he was smart, and had enough money saved up in his checking account to cover all of his outstanding debts. Thank God he'd been to school on a scholarship, or I'd be shit outta luck on that one. His parents told me to keep the money that had accumulated in his savings account, so I added it with my own, deciding to just leave his debit card as is because it would just expire anyway. I was very relieved to know that there would be no monetary turmoil from all of this. As if I'd needed _that_ added pressure.

When all of the money issues were put to rest, my next task had been to cancel all of his subscriptions and memberships to anything that would cost money. That had meant Blockbuster, the electronic store, the library, where he'd incidentally spent quite a bit of time, seeing as how I had to return twenty borrowed books while I was at it. I also had to cancel all of his magazines, which had been a chore in of itself seeing just how many science and gaming titles he'd subscribed to. I'd cancelled Netflix, which I had never used anymore, anyway. The only thing I had kept at that point was the satellite because I thought that television might distract me from my the turmoil in my own mind, my own broken heart. But that idea had been useless in the end, when I'd been unable to afford its incoming bills. The satellite was gone now, too.

I'd started my effort to go through his stuff after everything else had been taken care of. There'd been a few different categories belonging placement: send to parents, send to friends, donate, throw away, and keep. The first four groups were where most of his belongings accumulated. His parents would want to keep some old pictures and sentimental memorabilia. His friends would want to do the same, but with items they probably remembered from outings or pictures they had taken together. There was also a lot of junk, too. Old magazines his buddies didn't want, posters from when he was still a teenager, clothes he wouldn't need, anymore, left lying in drawers, in the closet, on the floor. Some of it got donated, and whatever the Salvation Army or Goodwill wouldn't take would get thrown away.

Like I said, that was one thing I regretted almost immediately.

As I'd kept occupied doing all of these things, though, I had felt a little sense of relief. Because it was easier to be angry at him and blame him for silly things than it was to miss him and wish he was still here. All of this had taken place during the first week. When my health began to decline rapidly afterward, my dad finally had his punishment, and a sick sense of satisfaction overwhelmed me as he watched me fade.

However, it was six months later, now, and nothing had changed. I sat on the couch with the static melting what was left of my brain, pillow against my chest, red goggles clutched tightly in my hands, and just remembered him and all of the things about our time together. Because that was all that was left of me: the memories he'd given me before he'd left. And they were more precious to me than any of his belongings could ever be, though that would never lessen the guilt I felt for ransacking the house of all his stuff. That would always be a regret on my conscience. What was left of my conscience, anyway.

All the same, I continued to sit there, tears staining my hollow cheeks, something that seemed impossible with the emaciated state of my body. I rocked back and forth, wishing that I was brave enough to try to kill myself again.

But I wasn't. Not because of his parents, or my parents, or even my friends. I didn't try again because I was worried that if there was a heaven, and he was watching me, he would see me die and fall down, down, down to that other place. Because I knew that the paradise he inhabited now was much too good for me. If I died, I was afraid I really would have no chance of seeing him again, and that I would only relive the agony of losing him. At least in life, I had a shot of possibly redeeming myself, though most of those hopes had flown out the window the second I stopped feeling guilty about my effect on the rest of my loved ones.

I knew there was a slim-to-none chance of my recovery. I didn't even feel weak for admitting that. I knew I was weak, knew that I was an embarrassment to everyone in existence who had pulled through disaster. The fact was that I no longer cared. They could think me foolish for unraveling because of this one catastrophe, could think me appalling for giving up on life just because I lost the most important person in my world. That didn't matter to me now. Because the truth was, he was gone, and he would never come back, and all that remained to keep everyone from forgetting was a few knickknacks and some distant memories.

What if everyone just stopped remembering? What if he was forgotten along with the beauty of the life he'd left behind? How could someone who was once so important to so many people be left to fade into the background? Didn't he deserve to be remembered? Didn't he deserve to have his memory remain intact so people would always know just how much of an effect his life had been on the world?

I could never ever throw his legacy away to be forgotten with every other hero who had died. He would always be remembered, his importance never forgotten because I would be here to remind them. That was my duty, now. To show them that his life permanently altered my own. I would never move on and let everything we'd shared waste away in the dusty darkness of the past. No, I would let myself be a reminder of who he was and why we all cared. For the rest of my life, I would sit here, crying, slowly dying, remembering everything about him that I possibly could. I would remember that day, the day everything had fallen apart.

And how his mentor's face had crumpled when he'd told me.

And how I had collapsed knowing the weight of his words.

And how it was already six months later.

And how the pain was still as fresh as the day he'd died.

And that he'd loved to eat.

And that the food had all gone bad because no one ate it anymore.

And that his parents treated me like a daughter.

And that I wished they wouldn't because it meant they no longer had a son.

And that he'd made me so crazy.

And that I'd made him crazy, too.

And how I had loved to fight with him.

And that I'd loved to make up with him even more.

And how corny his jokes always were.

And how they would always make me laugh.

And how he was ranked number one in his class.

And how he still couldn't figure out how the washing machine worked, regardless.

And that his hair was so soft and vibrant.

And that I always wanted to touch it.

And that his eyes had always been my favorite color.

And how he called me Beautiful.

And that his favorite running shoes were still sitting by the front door, untouched.

And that I had recorded all of his favorite shows onto VHS tapes before canceling the satellite subscription.

And how they all sat gathering dust in the closet.

And how he was so smart that he'd gotten a scholarship at school.

And how proud of him I had been.

And how our friends all looked at me like I was fragile and broken.

And how they were probably right.

And how my mother didn't tell me "I told you so."

And how she just let me cry on her shoulder instead.

And how my sister and her husband and my niece were at the funeral.

And how my dad was there, too.

And how I felt so lonely these days.

And how I felt even lonelier at night.

And how he used to hold me as we fell asleep.

And how I liked the way his arms felt around me.

And how he'd kiss away my tears when I'd cry.

And how he couldn't kiss them away right now.

And how empty the house was now.

And how I regretted getting rid of his stuff.

And how it only made me miss him more.

And how this was his pillow.

And how it still faintly smelled like him.

And how he'd run his fingers through my hair.

And how I'd threaten to cut off his fingers if he messed it up.

And that once upon a time I thought he hated me.

And how that same once upon a time I thought I hated him back.

And how we'd had our first kiss on New Year's Day so long ago.

And that he'd kissed me every New Year's since.

And that he'd kissed me every other day, too.

I remembered how much he loved me. I thought about how much I still loved him, would always love him. I would forever be the living reminder of the life he'd led on this earth. That was the only thing I could give him, now. And he deserved so much more. Because I would have gladly taken his place if at all possible. But that just wasn't an option, had never been an option. And realizing that hurt almost as much as losing him. Knowing that there was never a chance for us to stay together, that he of all people was meant to die.

And so I cried for him, and all the things I'd lost that day, and all the things we'd lost together.

Going on missions.

Cheering him on at graduation.

Deciding to move on from the hero business.

A wedding.

Little redheaded children.

Fighting about the stupid names he'd want to call them.

Letting him name them, anyway.

Watching them grow up.

Telling our daughter, no, you can't date the boy with the motorcycle.

Watching her do it, anyway.

Teaching our kids about their abilities.

Being worried about them joining the League.

Being proud about them joining the League.

Little redheaded grandchildren.

Watching him rot their teeth out by giving them candy.

Giving them more candy if they wouldn't tell their parents.

Growing old together.

Still fighting like we were fifteen, again.

Having him tell me he loves me.

Telling him that I love him, too.

That was my life, now. That was the only happiness I would know, anymore, just remembering him and the life we shared together, though it was a double-edged sword knowing that they would just remain memories.

Sometimes I thought I would die from the pain, and then when I didn't, I wished I would have. Because knowing that the only things to prove his existence were memories was almost unbearable. Those memories were the only things that never crumbled or decayed or gathered dust from disuse. I thought about him until I was exhausted from thinking, and my tear-ducts were dry, and I was asleep, dreaming of him, of being in his arms again. And then I would wake up, and he would be gone, and I would mourn his passing once again.

That would be my gift to him, the legacy I left him, the only thing I had left to give him.

That was why the place was a mess.


End file.
